


Freedom

by Kayim



Category: 1984 - George Orwell
Genre: Dystopia, Gen, Suicide, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-18
Updated: 2011-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-27 12:18:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/295776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kayim/pseuds/Kayim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To die hating them, that was freedom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Freedom

**Author's Note:**

> This is not a happy, fluffy fic. The world of 1984 is a dystopic one, with all the bad stuff which that implies.

Being paid for his cartooning work was still enough of a novelty for John Rutherford that he often found himself sitting at his desk at lunch time grinning rather than eating. To be recognized for his work – surely that was what every artist strived for in life? And now, here, in the small cubicle he had been allocated, he finally felt that he had achieved that goal.

The newspaper was one of the smaller ones in the city, but it had a reputation of fairness that appealed to him, and he felt honored to be considered part of the team there.

"You'll waste away to nothing like that." The familiar tones of Philip Aaronson floated across the divider between their boxes. The writer was only a few years older than him and had been one of only two people who had made the effort to be friendly when Rutherford first joined.

He offered a smile as Aaronson's head came into view. "I could probably stand to waste away a little bit." He patted his stomach even as a growl came from it. "Or perhaps I should stop and eat."

"Did someone mention food?" Andrew Jones was the third member of their little group, a photographer who had a skill for capturing the perfect moment in a single still image. Despite the gin that he had a little too much affection for, he had won awards for his photos: the most memorable being of a young girl in the middle of a war-zone, her hands covered in blood, her eyes filled with more anger than fear. The things he had seen would have broken most people, but Jones managed to maintain a sense of humor about the world that both amused and insulted in equal parts. "I'm starving."

Rutherford and Aaronson shared a smile before the three of them headed off to the canteen.

*

The Party function in New York was an event that none of them were particularly looking forward to. They were officially there as representatives of the newspaper, in order to provide an unbiased report, but the truth was very different.

In a few short months, the political landscape of the country had changed. Goldstein's views were radical, to say the least, but it was the mysterious unnamed man who worked beside him that worried people most.

Aaronson had coined the name "Big Brother", accompanied in an early edition of the paper by one of Rutherford's cartoons, depicting a mustachioed face staring out of a television screen. It had been for fun, a joke more at the expense of the people who believed in conspiracy theories than anything else, but by evening, the entire article had been replaced by a piece decrying rumors of food shortages across the country. The image and the name had remained in the memories of those who had seen it, the light-hearted meaning forgotten.

As the function devolved into an evening of drinking and deal-making, an inebriated Jones made a joke about Senator Masterson's wife – a plump little thing who he decided resembled a pot-bellied pig – without realizing that he was within earshot of the man himself. Masterson and Jones faced off against each other, neither willing to make the first strike, and neither willing to back down.

Aaronson and Rutherford, well-used to dragging the outspoken photographer away from troublesome situations, quickly apologized on their friend's behalf, dragging him away from the confrontation before it escalated any further.

The situation was unlikely to make the papers, but Masterson was renowned for holding a grudge. Less than a fortnight later, Senator Masterson became Comrade Masterson, the Inner Party was created and all evidence of Rutherford, Aaronson and Jones having been at the function was believed to have been removed.

*

Masterson had asked to be the one who worked on Jones. His superiors had no idea of the bad blood that had been boiling in the man's veins since the function a year earlier, but they were pleased by his enthusiasm for the task. No one doubted Masterson's dedication to the cause and they needed to break the three men somehow. Jones seemed to be the easiest place to start – with a body already ravaged by excessive eating and drinking, it didn't take long to break him.

Jones hadn’t even remembered the joke he had made, and had no idea what he'd done to deserve the punishment, but less than three days in the Room and he was revealing secrets that he hadn't even known.

It was only once that he mentioned Aaronson's name, but it was enough to have the writer pulled in as a conspirator. Stronger in both mind and body than Jones had been, he held on for days, but it wasn't enough. With a cry that echoed around the concrete room, he had finally confessed to inventing the name "Big Brother". It took just twelve more hours before he gave them something they could use in his public trial.

Rutherford had been the last one of the three picked up. He'd been found with a razor blade in his shaking hand and a copy of the original cartoon by his feet. In the end though, he hadn't been brave enough to make the first incision before they stormed through his front door.

*

The cameras were focused on the three of them, standing in a line on the stage in the middle of the square.

Most of the wounds had healed, but Aaronson was limping from a broken femur that would never fully repair itself, and Jones had a dark shadow around his left eye that even makeup couldn't entirely cover up. Only Rutherford appeared unscathed. At least on the outside.

"Our actions were unforgiveable. We sold secrets to the enemy and killed innocent Party members." Rutherford had been chosen as the spokesperson for the three, his face the most easily recognizable. If he was a more noble person, he would have insisted anyway, offering a certain amount of protection for the men he had once considered his friends. But any nobility he could have once laid claim to had been lost in Room 101 when he sold them out.

"We were wrong in our beliefs and sowed the seeds of a destruction that may never be reaped." The words made no sense, but they were the ones he had been told to say. No one would be listening to his actual words though, focusing instead on the face of Big Brother that hung on the banner behind him. He could barely concentrate enough to appreciate the irony of the image that hung there.

"We beg for the understanding of our comrades and from Big Brother himself."

He had said his words, recited the phrases that had been ingrained into his head in the past months. He tried to believe them – some days he even did – but he knew that it didn't matter. They were already dead. It was just a matter of time.

*

Rutherford sat alone in the room, one of many identical ones in a small run-down hotel deep in the cheapest area of town. No one but Proles visited here, none of the Outer Party, and certainly not a single Inner Party member. He finally believed he was free.

For the second time in his life, he sat with a razor blade in his hand. This time it was blunted and had dark rusted stains on it, but he wasn't concerned with the hygiene of the situation.

The cartoon was no longer in his possession, having been destroyed many months earlier, but it was hardly necessary any more. The image of Big Brother stared at him wherever he went, eyes that he had created, a figure that he had imagined. That it had taken on a life of its own should have filled him with pride. Instead, the guilt tore at him.

He hadn't seen Jones or Aaronson since that last time at the café. They had sat in silence for almost an hour, a futile attempt to rekindle something that had been destroyed in Room 101.

He closed his eyes, bringing to mind memories of chatter-filled lunch breaks and evenings wasted in public houses. He tried to remember the feeling of friendship, of camaraderie, of belief in what was right. As he slid the blade across his wrists, allowing the blood to carry the guilt from his body, he finally felt no pain, just relief.

**Author's Note:**

> Although this fic was written in response to a Yuletide request, the recipient has asked for their name to be removed due to the graphic suicide reference at the end.


End file.
